Lupita
by Filipina Mestiza
Summary: "Life was like an endless stream and we are the leaves that drift along its surface. We go wherever it takes us, but one day we would have to part from the others, to travel down a path of our own." ConnorxOC. A revised version of my former fanfic with the same name. Features a Filipino OC.


**Chapter One**

Let us say we are in tavern, a jovial and raucous one at that, and we are in the farthest corner, detached from all possibilities of disturbance. The red wine on our table is prepared in the Tuscan manner: matured to perfection and strong for our liking. The tune changes to that of an Irish jig, and the drunken patrons dance to their contentment. I respond to an acquaintance or two, and as I sip on the wonderful drink, you ask me, "How is it that an Indie from the East came all the way here, in America? Do you not long for the relatives you have left behind?" Naturally, I would have to smile and agree with you. But the fact is, nobody in Las Islas Filipinas probably knew who I was: there is no document that could prove my birth within the region of the archipelago. I may not have existed in my own native country, but I certainly did in the city of Veracruz, and in the record book of the pirate, Captain Edward J. Forrester.

According to several accounts, I was born in the town of Arevalo, which is found on the island of Panay, along the southern coastline, in the Visayas. It was also the home of my _Indio_ mother, who, for her own grounds, remains unidentified and mysterious, and it is for that reason people often consider she was a native of Mexico and not Filipinas. Hitherto, I allow them to continue with their illusions: to accept the information is my way of pardoning their lack of knowledge. Not all beings are born rich and clever, mind you.

My father expressed that the Indios of Filipinas were a sympathetic folk, that they help others not of their own race, albeit they do not need to do so. But if the time comes for them to be irate, their unbridled resentment can be quite alarming. And have I once thought of being raised amongst those gentle yet awe-inspiring natives, had I gotten the chance? The answer: never. For I need not to contain myself in a crowd of my people, if I am simply after their peculiar mannerism. It has always been in me, and I am glad to have conveyed it to those who needed the cordiality in dreadful periods of desolation, and as for the sense of courage, I had a feeling it was fairly beneficial when disregarding restrictions.

• • •

My time in the city of Veracruz was modest and well-furnished. My father was a high-ranking captain in the municipal military and he correspondingly managed a tobacco production on a large and plentiful estate. He had, however, leased Hacienda Estrella to an organization which would handle the labor and oversee the property, since he was already involved with important paperwork and official affiliations. We lived in one of the less noteworthy houses along the waterfront. My father was not the brand of gentleman who parades his capital at the community, because it was not in his nature to be prodigal. Nevertheless, I remember all of the furniture that cluttered every room. The courtyard, though negligible and plain, was teeming with wild undergrowth and miniature palm trees. When it rained, it gave the impression of a rainforest, which I had seen in several storybooks and artworks.

In my earliest years, I quite understood the variance between me and my family. One glimpse is enough to tell the whole truth: I was substantially, expressively, and generally diverse. Whoever my mother had been, I was most definitely similar to her, if not my father, my brothers, or my sister; I would have believed we were created alike, as if it were the will of God—and it was true, for not a single person in the Oquendo lineage had translucent hazel eyes like mine. It was no mistake, my father would say while caressing my cheek, I was absolutely my mother's daughter. My eyes, along with my bronzed complexion, were one of the delightful things he adored about me, and I wished that my older siblings felt the same.

By his previous lady, my father had three children—Miguelito, Agapito, and Fatima. The eldest son was uniformly kind, yet I had yet to see him in person. From what I was told, he was sent to the city of Mexico to be educated by Tio Dante, my father's second brother, as he was the legitimate inheritor of Hacienda Estrella and all of its capitals. He parted from us at the age of fifteen; I knew so little of this unknown relation for I was only two-years-old then. But through his earnest letters and thoughtful words I grew closer to Miguelito, and I wait for the day when I could finally meet him.

The second eldest son, Agapito, was insensitive and improvident, and had already given his father much uneasiness in terms of outgoings. His consciousness is dedicated solely to himself, and his character is met with disapproval and trouble. He was not an Oquendo, my father would say to exhaust the belligerence he wrought; he was a Diaz, like his mother and uncles. They were a family of drunkards and bettors, and I thought of it fortunate of Señora Trinidad to have charmed a wealthy nobleman such as Don Carlos Miguel Oquendo. Alas, had she lived longer, she would have been equally ashamed at the sight of her son's reckless impudence.

The daughter was, on the other hand, decorous and sanguine. Fatima was incredibly handsome, with her flaxen hair, womanly structure, and tantalizing brown eyes; every one unquestionably thought of her well-designed. Her memories were overall decent, since she was justly educated by scholars preferred by our father. She spoke French too, if I may recall, and knew a little German and Italian. Fatima could have been a remarkable example of a proper lady, had she reserved her censure for unknowing citizens.

I suppose you can say I grew up amongst adults instead of children, for my siblings were far older than what I estimated. Miguelito and I were thirteen years apart, Agapito ten, and Fatima nine. Had there been any other after me, I could've had a more cheerful youth. But after his prior spouse and his liaison with my mother, my father chose not to engage in any idealistic relationships any longer. He was old and weary. It startled me, one morning, that when I asked for his age, he said he was already sixty-five, for I was but six-years-old at that time. My father promised me that his old age would not be a hindrance, that he would stay strong for me, for all of us.

It didn't take long for disease to overcome my father, and I had just turned seven, in the year 1767, when he suffered a stroke that left him lame and unable to perform his duties. It had been a hot summer solstice and Hacienda Estrella looked rather agreeable: all I could see was a stretch of green land, dotted with forests, and surmounted by a large mountain in its far-off setting. Father seemed eager for all of us to exercise on our respective mounts, and so we ventured to the woodlands where the vanilla beans were reaped. It was Fatima who took noticed of our father's change, and after claiming he felt ill, he fell off his charger and convulsed on the ground. I never cried so hard in my life, the sight of him being helpless was too much, and it still haunts me to this day.

The militia persuasively resigned him from any obligations, and his only escape from world-weariness was to write on his journal. We no longer went out for walks, and the lives of my siblings altered as well; Fatima began to join revelries without our necessary attendance, and has cosseted herself in shopping sprees. Agapito did not also do well: his ignoble pattern of gambling worsened, and he nearly died twice in frequent brawls. His annual allowance vanishes almost rapidly, and he even tried to sell a part of the plantation to wage for his losses. From time to time, I accompanied my father along the harbor: he limped most often, and required to use a walking stick to assist him. He and I would sit on a stone bench to watch the waters cuff gently onto the coastline. His way of comforting himself was to hold my little hand in his, teaching me how to speak in my native language: to be deprived of one's own language is unforgiving, and we spoke that dialect only to ourselves.

"Ang ganda mo, Lupita," he would say to me.

"Salamat po, Baba," would be my reply.

* * *

Translations:

Ang ganda mo, Lupita = You are beautiful, Lupita

Salamat po, Baba = Thank you, father


End file.
